


On Love Support

by deklava



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Brain Surgery, Hospitalization, M/M, Medical Procedures, POV Sherlock Holmes, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:12:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in the hospital, recovering from brain surgery. He's sore, tired and <i>bored</i>. Fortunately, John is there to help him deal with all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Love Support

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/gifts).



> **Beta:** chasingriver.
> 
> For **moonblossom** , who had so many people rooting for her during her own surgery.

Sherlock’s eyes open slowly. He sees a drab curtain and ominous-looking medical equipment surrounding his bed like they’re holding a vigil. When fatigue forces his lids to lower again, the tiniest sounds buzz at his consciousness: electronic beeps, the soft hum of the air conditioner in the window, the muted sound of people talking behind the curtain.

He’s cold- freezing, in fact. He licks his dry lips and tries to call out, but the tube down his throat and oxygen mask over his nose and mouth muffles his words and making them sound like a pathetic moan.

Footsteps approach. Someone -a woman- asks if he can hear them, but all he can manage to stammer is “Cold.”

He hears a man ask, “Where are they?” That voice- he knows it from somewhere. But the painkillers and anaesthetic are muddling his ability to associate, and he remains confused. He wishes he could open his eyes again, but the lids are so sleep-heavy….

Then layer upon layer of pre-warmed blankets are tucked around him and a palm presses gently against his cheek.

“Hey,” the man says. “The surgery went well. They removed the tumour. You’re going to be just fine.”

Sherlock can’t remember anything about a tumour, but he does recognise the voice now.

“John,” he murmurs. The shivering stops and he dreams of Baker Street.

******

When Sherlock wakes up again John is gone and a critical care nurse is leaning over him, adjusting the pulse oximeter on his finger. Much of the sedation has worn off, so he’s able to examine his surroundings more closely. He can’t move without some kind of tube pinching or tugging, and tries to remember what they all are and what they’re for: an IV to keep him calm and hydrated, an arterial drain for taking blood samples, a catheter in his penis so he can empty his bladder without leaving the bed, and a nasogastric tube to control post-surgical nausea. His head hurts, but John had warned him that they might not give him really strong painkillers until they’re sure that he’s stable.

“A really bad headache could be a sign of swelling inside your skull and you may need more steroids to help control it.”

The nurses make neurological observations every twenty minutes or so. Sherlock is able to answer their questions, but he just wants _John_. He tries not to feel disgusted by the intensity of his need: he’s a grown man, damn it, not an anxious infant.

Mycroft’s arrival calms him a bit: his brother’s unusually gentle voice reminds him of when they were boys and Mycroft was capable of soothing away the pain from scrapes, bruises, and peer taunts. Then John finally comes, and Sherlock nearly weeps with gratitude. He relaxes into the pillows and blankets,  clutching John’s hand and listening to his beloved blogger talk about Mrs. Hudson’s fussing, Molly’s second attempt at finding a boyfriend, and other trivia that soothes him back to sleep like a bedtime story.

******

When he wakes up again, a nurse gives him a few sips of water, watching closely as he swallows without difficulty. Once the staff is satisfied that his stomach can tolerate fluids, they take the nasogastric tube out. Sherlock is mildly annoyed when the nurse's aid holds a tissue to his nose and instructs him to blow: he feels like he's regressed by thirty years. But he obeys, surprised by the relief that follows.

John arrives while Sherlock is in the middle of saying "Thank you."

"You should be hospitalised more often," he grins. "It does wonders for your manners."

"Shut up," Sherlock grumbles. He tries not to smile, and fails.

They both laugh.

******

Sherlock puts up with several indignities over the next few days. The drains all come out the day after his surgery, but they record his urine output to assess his body’s fluid levels, shift him about to avoid bedsores, and rotate his limbs to keep the muscles from stiffening. He tries not to snap at them, but this enforced passivity is pure torture: he’s used to rooftop chases, hand to hand combat, and leaping in front of speeding cabs. This type of figurative (and sometimes literal!) arse wiping is for lazy types like Mycroft, not him.

John helps, though. One day, when Sherlock is almost ready to tell a nurse that her fiancee is cheating on her, John draws something quickly on a piece of hospital stationary and holds it up.

“Sherlock, what’s this?” he asks.

Sherlock peers at it. “It’s nonsense. You’ve drawn a pair of shoes with a hat sitting on them.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirks up. “You can do better than that. Aren’t you supposed to be a genius?”

“I have a hole in my head at the moment, so enlighten me. What is it?”

“Anderson with the shit kicked out of him.”

Sherlock blinks. Then he laughs so hard that the nurse admonishes him, saying he might strain the stitches in his scalp. He knows he won’t, otherwise John wouldn’t have provoked his mirth. The moment he catches his breath, John stares pointedly at his sheet-clad body.

“Are you wearing any pants?”

‘No.” Sherlock wonders what John is getting at. Then he remembers, and laughs again.

After the nurse leaves, John pulls his chair closer to the bed and closes his warm fingers around Sherlock's.

“When they discharge you next week, we'll continue your exercise regime. Have you ship-shape in no time.”

“Oh? You mean exercises performed while I'm in bed and not wearing pants?”

John grins. “If you’re up for it.”

Sherlock smiles back. “I trust you to make sure that I am.”


End file.
